Phoenix
by Lono
Summary: Nothing could bring Molly Hooper back to life. He saw her final breath leave her body. But with a few short words from a nameless voice on the telephone, he realized the resumed beating of his heart had a name: hope.


**Rated: **T

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Sherlock belongs to the BBC, its writers, and producers. No infringement intended.

**Note:** This is loosely based on "The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax" from the _His Last Bow_ cycle of SH stories.

The poem that Molly quotes is Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman", which kills me dead. If you haven't read it, you really must. Just pop it into yon Google and behold.

This was a tricky one for me to write because I'm a wimp. I wasn't sure whether to publish it or not. A few people patiently dealt with my neuroses at various points. They all encouraged me with their enthusiasm and suggestions and edits. Thank you so much, **Adi-who-is-also-Mou**, **Broomclosetkink**, **Chaosisblue**, and **MorbidbyDefault** (whose name I wish started with a D so that this list of acknowledgments could have been contiguously alphabetical—think about changing it for next time, Megan :D).

I hope everyone else enjoys!

* * *

**_Phoenix_**

* * *

"Molly Hooper is alive."

The unrecognizable voice murmured it in his ear. No greeting, no introduction, and then the phone went dead. Not that it mattered. Sherlock Holmes, for all his caustic remarks and sarcastic comebacks, couldn't speak a single word in reply.

'Molly'was a name Sherlock wouldn't let himself speak aloud, because it felt like an open wound. That keening pain that hadn't had time to dull and—as he wavered between wishing for and dreading—so far showed no inclination of disappearing.

He stared at his mobile, furiously telling his brain and that constant pain in his chest that this was a cruel prank. _Don't you dare hope, damn it! _He thought itlike a mantra that was hedging on an elegy.

Of course, what he told himself and what his brain wrought were two different things. Over the past five days he'd thought of little more than his memory of Molly.

He'd remember her smiling at him, running her fingers through his hair. He'd remember her gleefully telling him about interesting 'patients' who found their way onto her slab. He'd remember her laughing when he would stiltedly tell her a joke. He would remember how, at night, she would burrow her cold hands under his t-shirts, pressing them against against his skin, much to his discomfort and amusement.

He'd remember watching as her eyes slipped shut; watching as her last breath shuddered through her small, helpless 'd remember the flames licking around her. He'd remember how _still_ she was.

It was often the only thing he saw when he allowed his eyes to shut.

He would remember their last morning together and wonder how he would have done things differently if he'd known she'd be dead a short time later. Would he have committed every freckle on her skin to memory? Would he have held her more and more tightly?

Not even remotely. He would have _saved her._

In the void of a bed grown too big for him he'd lie, berating himself for missing what could have spared her life, wondering how his mind could have failed her so.

Now, Sherlock clutched his mobile in his hand, looking around frantically to see if someone was watching him from the end of an aisle, laughing as he floundered in the middle ofthe neighborhood Tesco. He continued his refrain—_it's a cruel joke; it's a cruel joke_—feeling his lips moving with it. As if it might reinforce to his bruised, broken self that there was absolutely no hope to be found, and most certainly never from anunidentifiable voice on the telephone.

But Sherlock Holmes was alone amidst oblivious shoppers with just his lecturing words and a still heart that, despite his demands, had sparked with a damnable hope.

* * *

He'd come off of a grueling investigation the previous evening and collapsed face-first in bed with hardly a grunt of hello in her direction. He hadn't worried that she'd be offended; she was used to it, after all.

Regaining consciousness some twelve hours later, he felt ready to discuss the case. Despite his best efforts, it had gone unsolved, and while he was loath to recount his failures, he knew she would have some philosophical thoughts on the matter. While it wouldn't erase his failure, it would offer some comfort.

Sherlock lay in the middle of the bed, staring at the dust motes lazily floating in the morning light. He felt a little put out that she wasn't there when he'd awoken, cuddled into his side, but he supposed it could be rather boring, waiting for someone who slept like the dead to rouse himself.

Finally, though, he couldn't wait any longer. "Molly," he called loudly.

He heard the _thunk_ of something—a book, hardcover, heavy and large; clearly a textbook—hitting the floor as if dropped by startled hands. The sofa springs creaked as someone pushed up and away from it, and the shuffling of bare feet belonging to a women of slight build came down the hallway toward him.

His lips curved in a pleased smirk.

Without comment, he watched as she came into the bedroom, smiling at him. "You're awake," she greeted cheerfully. She moved to the bed and sat down by his hip, resting her hand on the center of his chest and sweeping it in comforting circles. "Did you sleep well?"

Sherlock's eyes slipped closed briefly as he enjoyed the feeling of Molly's hand stroking his bare skin, before he remembered he needed to respond to her question. "Yes, quite."

He cracked an eye open to look at her again, bringing his hand up cup her neck. Pulling her down to him, his lips pressed to hers in a kiss that was a far better greeting than any words he could string together, by his way of thinking. She concurred, if her enthusiastic response was any indication.

They lingered there, their mouths reintroducing themselves, their hands clutching at bedding, clothing, and skin. Soon, he was tugging at her clothes, eager to rid her of the offensive she was out of them, he hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her over him and rolling her beneath his body. They continued to kiss lazily.

They had all the time in the world.

As he rocked in her, feeling the soft skin of her thighs brushing his hips and the strength of her arms wrapped around him, he nuzzled the underside of her jaw, breathing in the vibrations of sounds low in her throat and smelling the warmth of her. He only drew back long enough that he could kiss her smiling, sighing mouth—he loved kissing her while she smiled—before returning to that favorite spot. His own voice gave rise to sounds made only for Molly.

After, he kept her close, her limbs tangled with his as he explained the intricacies of the week-long case that had taken him to France. He drew maps on her skin with his fingertips, drummed out words on the imagined keyboard of her back, and all the while her eyes followed the movements of his flying hands as she asked questions about the case.

They lay there for another hour before the other demands of his body dragged them out of their warm cocoon. As he waited for the water of the shower to heat to his liking, Sherlock turned a winsome look on Molly. "Don't let me keep you from your breakfast. I know how you were longing for some fried eggs and kippers."

Molly merely arched an eyebrow at him.

"Might as well make a few extra while you're at it. I could eat. Be out in a few." On this pronouncement, he beamed at her and ducked under the spray of the shower, but not before Molly grabbed her towel from where it hung on the rack and snapped his backside with it.

He was mid-shampoo when he heard the metal rings on the curtain rod scraping as the plastic sheeting was drawn back. He turned to see her poking her face into the shower.

"We're out of eggs. I'm off to the supermarket. Need anything while I'm out?"

Sherlock shook his head and turned back to the spray, trying to prevent any stinging suds from dripping into his eyes.

* * *

While he did tell himself later that he wouldn't have done anything different that morning if given the chance, that he would have just _saved_ her, he did wish he could have said goodbye. Thanked her. Told her he loved her.

Any of the things he so rarely remembered to say or do.

His nightmares always began with that peaceful awakening. It made what followed that much worse. He would replay every moment in his mind, wondering just how far prior to their lost morning he should have seen it coming.

He would never think of it as anything less than his worst mistake.

* * *

After Sherlock became aware that something wasn't right, that Molly was taking an awfully long time to fetch something a only a hundred meters away, he tried texting her.

No answer.

Five minutes passed and he tried ringing her.

No answer.

"Molly," he said abruptly after her overly cheerful voicemail greeting finished sounding. "Answer the phone."

He tried again a scant minute later.

No answer.

The itch of agitation between his shoulder blades worsened as he stuffed his feet into his shoes, knotting the laces into a sad mockery of bows before he ran out the door, taking the steps to the ground floor two at a time. Outside, he hurried down Baker Street toward the supermarket, his eyes scanning each face he passed. Nothing seemed amiss, but he couldn't spot Molly's figure trudging toward him.

He reminded himself that she knew some people in the neighborhood. A familiar face had likely waylaid her. Poor Molly, he comforted his racing mind. She hated small talk.

It was only when he spotted the canvas tote she used to carry groceries, lying forlornly on the sidewalk, that he felt the first crushing thud of panic settle over him.

The panic never lessened, only worsened.

* * *

He first kissed her on a Saturday morning.

She'd taken that particular shift as relief for a flaky colleague who would lose his job a month later. Though Barts' pathology staff only conducted post-mortems on weekdays, there was still plenty to be done over the weekend. Between paperwork, liaising with police, and facilitating viewings and identifications of the hospital's least fortunate visitors, Molly was always busy.

She hadn't looked thrilled when he arrived.

Sherlock swept in an hour into her shift. Though he'd timed it that way, waiting until he was positive he would see _her, _he only smiled coolly on spotting his favorite pathologist. It would never do to look too eager.

With not much more than a perfunctory greeting, he began rattling off names of a dozen or so unrelated decedents whose toxicology results he required. When Molly patiently explained that half of those bodies hadn't even been brought to the Barts morgue, he waved it away like an irritating fly and suggested that she start making some calls.

She squawked when he strode past her to the refrigerator and started yanking open drawers and fingering toe tags, not bothering to close the doors again before moving on to the next. The sound did nothing to deter him. Finally, he reached a corpse of particular interest and rolled out its slab, beginning his investigation straightaway.

"Is there a problem, Molly?" he asked it in a bored monotone as he leisurely perused the dermis of Mr. Archie Braddock through his magnifying glass. He did spare her a glance as she hurried to the drawers, closing several doors with more than a little force.

"You _know_ you're supposed to wait for me to access the bodies, Sherlock, for just this reason. What if I hadn't been here when you opened the drawers? Putrefaction begins within a matter of minutes. The cold keeps it at bay. How would I explain accelerated decomp to these people's families?"

"I'm well aware of decomposition rates, thank you," he returned, "but I am afraid this is all rather urgent. Do you have the toxicology results I asked for yet?"

Molly would later tell Sherlock that his faux-guileless expression didn't exactly endear him to her. At the time, however, she blinked at him, used to his ignorance but, as ever, surprised by its depth. "You asked me for them a minute-and-a-half minute ago."

"Yes, and…?" He made a waving motion, trying to summon a speedy reply from her mouth.

"And in that time you expect me to have procured blood test results for twelve people, seven of whom never even passed through this morgue?"

After looking around, trying to spot a wily, trick question, Sherlock finally shrugged and answered, "Yes."

"Unbelievable. Put the body away when you're done with it, or you'll lose all access."

Sherlock watched as she stomped over to her workstation. He tossed out a "Please-and-thank-you" to the back of her stiff shoulders, but she didn't turn back. She snatched up the handset of the morgue's phone and started dialing a number, not looking at him again.

Though, when he started shouting across the room, instructing her on what she should ask of the other labs, she _did_ make a rude gesture with two fingers on her free hand.

He wondered if perhaps she wasn't happy about something.

Sometime later, Sherlock decided he should see if Molly's ire had cooled at all and made his way over to her. On a conciliatory note, he'd neatly tucked Mr. Braddock back into cold storage and tried to school his face to look casually curious, but he drew up short when he saw the deep frown on her face as she read something on her computer screen. But she wasn't just concentrating or unhappy with a piece of data. She looked… sad.

_She doesn't think I can see her,_ he thought, startled, remembering.

He felt a twinge, because he had been working harder to avoid upsetting Molly. He had found he rather enjoyed making her happy, in fact.

Slowly, he finished his approach, stopping just at her side. By the time he reached her, her expression had assumed acareful quietness, though she didn't take her eyes off of the monitor.

"I'll print these reports to the machine down the hall so you can have color on the bar graphs," she murmured.

"Thank you very much," he sincerely replied, albeit stiffly. And then, "Is everything…. Are you alright?"

He wasn't used to inquiring after people, didn't know the etiquette of when it was a good thing to do. He could only hope it was right.

The corners of her mouth—which he'd realized was actually quite pretty when it (and Molly) cropped into his mind more and more—tilted down for just a flicker of second before they raised exaggeratedly into an uncomfortable smile.

"Of course. Sorry, just busy reading this report. I can see why you think these cases are all related." She still refused to meet his eyes.

Saying Sherlock was out of his element would be an understatement. But he pressed on. Because John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and _Molly _had taught him that he should. And, though he might damn himself for it later on, because he _wanted_ to.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head, so he repeated it, more firmly.

Finally, jerkily, she said, "I'm just having a bad day." Sherlock thought she was going to leave it at that, and she looked surprised, too, when she burst out,"I'm feeling overwhelmed. My coworkers aren't giving me any support; that's why I'm working for my tenth, twelve-hour shift when I was supposed to be at home today. I'm trying to get a paper done, but my research is coming out all wrong. And then today, and every day, you couldn't even _ask_ me for my help. You just demanded it. As if my own work is meaningless compared to yours."

"I don't think that," he replied, startled. "Your work is valuable to me."

"Only when you need it for something."

He frowned. "Not just then. You are intelligent and you've facilitated a central procedure for this morgue that has been to its detriment. You are thorough and accurate and better than any other pathologist in the city."

When she started to wave his words away, he hurriedly said, "No, I'm not patronizing you. If I found someone better, I would utilize her. But I don't see that happening, because your work is exemplary."

She nodded miserably. "I know that a little, but I'm just so tired. Tired of being _on_ all the time. Tired of people thinking I hold all of the answers, even if those answers are just to the question, 'How can you make _my_ life easier?'"

Miserably, she fiddled with the end of her braid as she continued, "And even if you appreciate my work, you don't appreciate it enough to recognize that I have other duties beyond what I do for you. I like helping people. I like helping you. But it isn't what I imagined my life would be like."

"How do you mean?" he asked, confused.

She struggled to articulate it. "I used to be gregarious and loud. Not recently," she laughed mirthlessly on seeing his incredulous face. "I'm not sure when there was a shift, but I used to assert myself and get in trouble in class for talking too much. I didn't mean to lose that. It just became easier than fighting." She looked down, bringing her hands back to the keyboard, lightly tapping over various letters and numbers. "Who'd have thought that staying quiet was so much more exhausting than being loud and letting it all out?"

Sherlock felt unsettled. He knew that she was right, intellectually; that he sometimes took advantage of her time and assistance because she would always come through for him. But it was a harder thing telling himself that he should have learned to recognize when to step back and leave her alone.

"You're allowed to be tired, Molly. You're allowed to say no. You don't have to be 'on' all the time, not for me or anyone else. It—it's important to me that you know that." He swallowed apprehensively."When you need to, you can tell me to piss off. I hope you won't have to often, but you can. You _can_ say no."

He wished he wasn't so awful at this. How was he possibly consoling her with his wooden, awkward words?

Turning his head, he found her smiling at him little. "Thank you," she whispered.

Relieved, he studied her. When her pretty lips smiled, her pretty eyes changed, too. They smiled as well, if he had to be fanciful about it. And he did.

It wasn't just comfort. It certainly wasn't to placate. It was because he wanted to kiss her while her eyes could still smile at him. He felt a warmth blossom in his chest when he realized he _could_ make her happy, that he could somehow know what she needed to hear.

Perhaps because he'd forgotten for far too long that he had the ability to comfort as well as hurt with his words. He leaned down, stopping when his face was an inch from hers. Her eyes widened a fraction, but didn't lose any of their warmth as they flicked between watching his mouth and meeting his gaze.

"You can say 'no'," he whispered, licking his lips nervously.

"Yes, I can." She replied. And then she didn't say anything else.

He leaned down and tentatively pressed a kiss to her pretty, smiling mouth.

* * *

In the tumult that followed his finding Molly's abandoned bag, Sherlock vaguely remembered calling the police, and then Mycroft. His brother, John, Mary, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson all crowded into the flat, along with a bevy of Met officers and some of Mycroft's underlings.

He didn't hear much beyond the static of police radios, clinking coffee mugs, and murmured voices. He knew that he answered questions. Over and over, the same questions with no changing answers, though he couldn't for the life of him recall to whom he spoke. He remembered later that he didn't even delve into his usual protective stores of sarcasm. He just gave straight replies and hoped for only one answer.

"She went out to get eggs. She didn't come back."

"We made love. We talked. She was going to make breakfast."

"She asked me if I wanted anything from the market."

"She was smiling and happy."

"She never mentioned having any problems with anyone at work or anywhere else."

"I don't know where she is."

"Please help me find her?"

When he said that, perhaps his brain filled in with illusory detail, but it would seem that every body in the room stilled, turned, and looked at him.

Sherlock Holmes asking for help. Begging for it, really.

He did recall that Sally Donovan, who'd joined Greg Lestrade not long into the day, brought him a glass of water soon after that. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him with a furrowed brow before she turned and walked back across the room.

He spent most of the day trying to ignore the concerned people around him by scouring the area. Formal search parties had been formed, but John and he walked London until dawn the next morning, searching for any hint of where Molly had gone. But it was as if she had disintegrated, leaving nothing but the ash of her memory behind; ashes in the form of her clothes, books, and her scent on the pillow next to his.

Security footage showed her leaving the store without incident. Another camera caught her tote containing the eggs hitting the ground and a third captured the toe of her shoe being yanked out of shot in the top of its frame. Nothing else. Mycroft had retrieved every recording in the area, but whoever had taken Molly had timed it perfectly.

There was no trace to follow, not even for the genius Sherlock Holmes.

Molly Hooper was gone.

* * *

Sherlock avoided telling anyone that he and Molly were… s_omething_. In fact, he wasn't even sure that they were anything.

There had been plenty of nerves and awkwardness and a lot of stepping around the issue after their kiss. It certainly didn't happen again, though not for lack of interest in either party. Both Molly and Sherlock would often catch the other staring, followed by embarrassed blushes and darting eyes.

Finally, though, one month and four days after their lips touched for the first time (not that he was keeping track), Molly apparently had had enough.

That Tuesday afternoon, she strode over to him in the Barts lab, where he was investigating a slide of epithelial cells. "I've signed up to attend a dinner talk on virtual autopsies because I can get Continuing Education credit for it. I listed you as my plus-one and put you down for the Beef Wellington. It's bound to be shoddy food, but the topic interests me. Come to my flat tomorrow at seven and we'll walk from there. Dress isn't formal. Set a reminder on your phone so you can tell me if a case comes up and we'll figure out something else to do later."

Before he could reply, she turned and stepped away, only to whirl back to him, brace her hand on his shoulder, and peck him on the cheek. And then she was hurrying out of the lab, letting its door swing shut behind her.

Sherlock suspected he was blushing. Fortunately, only the cells on his slide were there to judge him.

At that thought, he berated himself for anthropomorphizing dead cells and resumed adjusting his view through the microscope lens (with only slightly shaking fingers).

The next night, they attended the dinner where the food was, indeed, shoddy, and fought laughter at the ill-prepared presentation. Well, Molly fought her laughter. Sherlock emitted loud, incredulous snorts throughout. She dug her nails into his thigh under the table several times in silent reprimand, though she kept her head down, chin pressed to her chest to hide her smirks. Her hand on his leg certainly distracted him, though perhaps not in the way she intended.

Afterthey finally escaped the painfully awkward dinner, Sherlock and Molly walked along the perimeter of a nearby square, circling it several times even though they passed Molly's building on each circuit.

She giggled as she recounted the moment the presenter mistakenly opened an amateur porno instead of his demonstration video. It only got worse when he couldn't figure out how to turn the movie off. He had fumbled, pressing buttons (including the volume control, accidentally sending the couple's enthusiastic moans soaring through the entire restaurant). Finally, he slammed his computer shut and continued talking, only his fingers tugging at his collar belying his mortification.

Sherlock smirked down at Molly as she stomped her feet in glee."I wasn't aware that particular position was useful in an autopsy," she chortled. "You would think arranging a corpse's legs that way would be cumbersome, particularly if it's still in full rigor."

"It didn't look like the best of lab conditions," Sherlock agreed. "You never told me that silk sheets and bad music were requisite in post-mortems."

"It's a school of thought that I have yet to ascribe to. Also, did the scalpel penetration seemed rather suspect to you?" Molly asked with a leer, surprising an actual laugh from Sherlock.

They continued to stroll along, their conversation sobering as they discussed the implications of the technology before shifting to discuss how it might have changed previous cases of Sherlock's. Finally, though, Molly glanced at her watch and blinked in surprise, realizing that it was nearing midnight and the November air wasn't getting any warmer.

Reluctantly, he walked with her back toward her flat. When they reached it, Molly stepped up to the top of the building's front stairs. He followed her, stopping two steps below hers. Turning, her lips curved into a smile when she found herself eye-level with him. "Thank you for coming with me, Sherlock. I hope you don't feel like it was a wasted evening. And even if you do, thank you for not saying anything about it."

He nodded. "It was enlightening. I find it good to keep apprised of new technology." He cleared his throat before mumbling, "It was an enjoyable evening. With you."

Molly's eyes caught the light from the bulb over the front steps, making the darker brown of her irises resemble amber. Sherlock stared at her, ill at ease.

He wanted to kiss her again.

He had no reason to think she wouldn't let him, but moving from thought to action was proving difficult for a man who rarely second-guessed was silly, really. Sherlock trusted Molly with his life; but he was wary of allowing his brain to trust itself.

Fortunately, Molly made the decision for him, curling her fingers securely into the lapels of his Belstaff and tugging his face to hers. The kiss was soft, a way to say goodnight. Sherlock felt his fingers itch as they fought not to grip her any tighter.

Ever so sweetly, Molly pressed kisses to his lower lip, the tip of his nose brushing her cheek, and he felt her mouth curve slightly at the tickling sensation.

And then she traced seam of lips with the tip of her tongue in a completely different way, and Sherlock's lips parted with a startled gasp. He echoed her movements, tentative at first, but with growing confidence. It was a jousting match, the slide of their mouths making Sherlock long for their bodies to do the same.

His hands circled her delicate shoulder blades and then smoothed down the span of her back. Even through the layers of coat and clothing, he could feel the heat of her body, warming him in a strange, new way. It wasn't just arousal. What it all boiled down to was that Sherlock had never been held quite this way.

It felt… different, holding someone whom he trusted and cared for. Holding Molly, who had done and would do so much for him. Though he'd realized his attraction to her some time ago, his hesitance had been because of so much more than just self-preservation or any feelings of futility. It hadn't even been because of fear.

He'd hesitated because he felt overwhelmed by it all. And here she was, Molly Hooper, a sweeping wave engulfing him on several fronts. But funnily enough, as he surrendered to it, he realized that she and her surprising strength were also buoying him through the cascade. Through the touch of her, he found an anchor as the swell surrounded him.

After what could have been minutes or hours, Molly drew back. Sherlock felt his lips tremble slightly as their mouths separated. His breath was shuddering in his chest, butthe tremor was mostly because he felt a bit overcome. It was not an easy thing for him to go from being his own island to _needing_ people—needing _Molly_—so integrally.

Because he could only be honest with himself. He needed her. Not just sexually, though there was plenty of that, too. He was hard and aching and his skin all but vibrated for her, but his need was also an emotional one.

Somehow, in the time he'd known her, particularly in the time since she'd helped him fake his death, Molly had moved into his mind and chest. She was a steady pressure. What surprised him the most was just how little that pressure bothered him. It wasn't one she was exerting on him. It was just something he could appreciate with its ebbs and flows.

It gave him the feeling that he was able to choose where he went, and though it had to be madness, he was choosing to go to Molly.

Sherlock ducked his head, barely brushing his lips down her cheek. And then he stepped away from her, backing down the steps as he looked up at her. She returned his gaze, her dark eyes shining with a fire for him.

Slowly, they smiled at each other.

* * *

Forty-eight hours after her disappearance, Sherlock once again pulled his numb body through the door of the flat. The soles of his shoes, not meant for the unforgiving city streets, were wearing thin; but still, he walked. Still, he followed the path Molly had taken to the store and through its aisles, again and again, only to stop at the spot where she'd been taken.

Looking for something but finding nothing. Only nothing and a mind that was failing him.

John and Mary had returned to the flat. They moved back into John's old bedroom, overriding Sherlock's insistence that they would only bother him. And so Sherlock had spent the last two nights sitting at the foot of his bed, hearing them moving about in the flat. He had vacillated between pretending the rattling of silverware and the click-clack of feet on the floor came from Molly and reminding his tired body that it should never be fooled, because the disappointment would be that much worse.

That day, as he walked into the flat's lounge, he saw John sitting in his old chair, furiously typing on his computer. He had taken to scrolling through blogs and missing persons pages, hoping to glean some kind of hint that might lead them to Sherlock's missing lover.

Sherlock's slowing heart still occasionally gave some stubborn beats, hoping that his friend would find something where he had failed.

He didn't bother to cast off his coat as he moved to his chair, sitting and letting an exhausted motionlessness overtake him. He saw John watching him worriedly, but his former flatmate made no comment. Instead, he went back to frowning at this computer screen and dancing his fingers over the keys in indecision.

"My favorite thing is when she smiles at me." At first, Sherlock didn't realize it was he who had spoken, but watching John shut his computer slowly at look at him, he could come to no other conclusion. So he continued. "She isn't the only one, obviously, but when Molly smiles at me…. When so many people get angry with me—usually because I've said something to deserve it—I can go to the morgue or return home to Molly and she will smile at me because she is _happy_ to see me. It's such a strange sensation. But I've come to rely on it."

"Of course you have. Who wouldn't?" John reassured him.

"Did you honestly ever think me capable of feeling this way, John? So wrapped up in another human, feeling enmeshed with her wellbeing and happiness? Feeling _happy _to be so entangled with her?"

John started shaking his head as Sherlock spoke. "I never thought you were _incapable._ I just didn't think you'd ever let yourself have those feelings. But, Sherlock, I'm so glad you did."

"I'm don't know what to do. I have to find her, John." His voice broke as he rubbed at a dull pounding that had taken up residence in his temple.

The doctor nodded. "You do. But we all want her back, so we will do everything we can to help her and you. Lestrade has requested special permission from his superiors to be placed as a primary on her case. Even Sergeant Donovan is helping. I believe she said something about you being slightly more tolerable with Molly around. And God knows Mycroft is using his resources, terrifying as that is."

Sherlock could only manage a jerky nod in response. He couldn't think of anything else to say, so he began flipping through mental files, clinging to that waning belief that he could solve this. That he could bring Molly home, whole and smiling.

The familiar chiming of a mobile roused Sherlock an hour later. Normally, he would have ignored it, but any sound his phone made in the last two days had elicited a frantic response; in the first haze of panic, he had hoped that Molly would call him and laughingly explain that she'd realized she'd forgotten an appointment, and subsequently forgotten the eggs in her hurry to get to it. Not that that was even remotely in character for her. Molly Hooper was as organized and punctual as he wasn't.

But, still, he hoped.

When it became all too clear that that wouldn't happen, Sherlock hoped he would receive a ransom request or a taunt. Anything that would give him a new path to follow, a new way to find her.

Stiffly, he pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket. The text message came from a blocked number, its only contents a website URL.

Sherlock lunged across the short space separating his chair from John's. He pulled the computer from his friend's lap without explanation, sinking to the ground and willing his shaking fingers to type in the correct site address on his first attempt. John merely watched him, hoping that Sherlock had had a breakthrough.

The address was an unhelpful string of letters, and the site that loaded was a simple black backdrop with a video file in the center. When Sherlock hovered over the video, a banner appeared that simply read, "Begin livestream".

He hit play without hesitation. It took a moment for the content to buffer, but when it finally loaded, it was a clear, high-resolution image of Molly Hooper. She stared at the camera, hardly moving. If she hadn't blinked right after the stream populated, Sherlock would have wondered if it was just a screen capture. Tears pooled in her eyes and fell down her cheeks without her gaze wavering.

But then a horrible, quiet voice began whispering from behind the camera, and Molly's eyes flicked away from the lens. Sherlock had to struggle to make out what the voice was saying. He stabbed at the computer's volume control button, to no avail.

And then he didn't have to wonder at all as the man's voice increased in volume, sounding through the tinny speakers of John's laptop. "I will bring thee to ashes upon the earth in the sight of all them that behold thee."

On those words, Sherlock began shouting at this computer. Of course there was no response; this wasn't a conference. Molly couldn't hear him. But he couldn't stop, not with his growing horror and desperation as he watched something change in Molly.

It looked like she was seizing at first, she was wrenching about so fiercely. She struggled against unseen bonds and began to shake her head furiously, saying, "No, no, no. Please, I beg you."

Nothing beyond Molly changed, until suddenly it all changed. Her cries increased, and each plea for help felt like a stiletto to Sherlock's chest. His fingers scrabbled on the computer's keyboard, desperation marking his every move.

Molly began gasping and coughing.

And then the smoke and flames made their way into view.

Sherlock could do nothing but watch and scream.

A glow, dim at first, formed a corona around Molly, until it made her skin shine warmly. But this was no blissful sunlight.

Perhaps it was merciful that the smoke reached Molly first. She struggled for air only very briefly. Suddenly, she stopped struggling and looked back at the camera. Her brow wrinkled, a silent grief, and then her eyes slid closed.

Though he could never say how he knew, Sherlock realized, even as his cries of desperation increased, that she was accepting what was about to happen. How could she be brave when he felt the flames licking the edges of video singe a new, permanent fear into him?

She didn't open her eyes again. She didn't look beatific or peaceful, but she didn't look like she was suffering, either. Her breath was still labored, but was clearly only instinctive struggle.

As he watched, Molly's head dropped forward, her body shuddered once and then she was completely still.

It was a mercy that the smoke reached her before the flames. It was a mercy that the camera apparently couldn't withstand the heat of the fire. Just as a flame licked the side of Molly's face, the screen began to distort, a sickly, black slide of melting lens, and then the screen went black.

Sherlock still saw the shape of Molly burnt into his corneas.

He was left, still clawing at the computer, trying futilely to reach her. He knew he was moaning, but there wasn't a thing he could do the stop the tortured sounds from leaving him. He became aware of John and Mary covering him, their hands groping for him to pull him more tightly into their arms. He couldn't struggle against them. He wasn't sure he would if he could.

Instead, he stared at the laptop through the crack between John's shoulder and Mary's forearm, as if the screen would suddenly come to life again. As if Molly would suddenly come to life again.

He wasn't sure how long they huddled there in the middle of the lounge floor. Before Molly's end began in earnest, John must have rung Sherlock's brother, desperate for his help, for Mycroft came through the door while Mary and John still held Sherlock. His demeanor was relatively placid, but Sherlock could see a glint of something in his eyes; something like remorse.

Mycroft crouched down in front of his younger brother, placing himself between Sherlock's gaze and the computer. His voice was unwavering and steady as he spoke lowly. "We couldn't trace the text or the video. They were encrypted and pinged from several different mirrors. We'll keep trying. I am sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock yanked his unseeing stare to something new. He felt a tear falling from his chin to his chest, though he only vaguely realized his breath was sobbing out of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft reach forward tentatively and rest his hand lightly on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock hardly noticed the hold of the people around him.

How could he?

Molly Hooper was dead.

* * *

They made love for the first time on a Monday night.

They didn't plan it. It wasn't borne of some grand gesture, but nor was it something perfunctory. She had to work the next day and he was in the middle of a rather intriguing case involving a murderous pet shop owner and a decrepit budgie who served as the only witness to the crime. Sherlock and Molly had parted ways after their first "date" with plans to meet again soon, but the case had distracted him and he hadn't seen her since that night.

As it was, they met up by sheer happenstance. He had followed a trail obliviously into her neighborhood and literally ran into her as she exited the supermarket around the corner from her flat.

"Oh, excuse m—Sherlock!" She exclaimed as she reached out to steady the tall stranger who had nearly bowled her over, before recognizing him.

He blinked at the sound of his name, breaking slightly loose from the absorption that so often consumed him on cases. "Molly. What are you doing here?" He looked vaguely around them and squinted at various landmarks, trying to pinpoint just where 'here' was.

These shifts were nothing new to Molly; she'd known Sherlock for several years, after all. Gently, she took his hand in hers and explained, "You're at the Blue Moon Supermarket on Harper Road."

"I can see that," Sherlock waved her off impatiently. "Why are _you_ here?"

Molly opened her mouth, shut it again, and then sighed. "My flat's nearby."

Sherlock peered at her, feeling some of his case-fog lift further. "Ah, yes," he murmured a bit fuzzily as his synapses finally recalled a memory of Molly with the neighborhood's brick walls and white-painted porches behind her. "I'm on a case," he explained, sounding wholly stupid, he thought.

"I figured as much." She smiled at him slightly. "Are you all right? You look a bit peaky."

"Of course I'm all right. Do you know of any illegal parakeet breeders in the area?"

"You found out my secret hobby," she deadpanned.

"Really?" he asked, swaying slightly.

Her face registered concern for the first time that night. "No, of course not. Sherlock, why don't you come warm up at mine for a little bit? It's frigid out here."

Just before he turned her down, Sherlock remembered the soft, wool throw that Molly kept over the back of her couch and her cheerful, blue kettle that yielded hot water for her rather delicious teas.

"Yes," he replied, instead.

Molly regained her hold on his hand and led him along the short walk back to her flat, coaxing him up the stairs and into the warm, lamp-lit glow of her sitting room.

It was only as he peeled his thin gloves from his fingers that Sherlock realized just how cold he really was. He hurried through shedding his coat and scarf before sitting on the sofa without ceremony. The wool blanket was just where his memory had advertised it to be, and he wasted no time in pulling it over his lap. He might get some fibers on his suit as a result, but he had to prioritize.

Idly scratching Molly's cat under the chin, Sherlock watched her echo his shedding of outerwear before hauling her carrier bags through to her small kitchen.

She called out over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway, "I don't have any decaf tea, I'm afraid. I hope regular black is alright with you."

He managed a grunt of assent, distracted by the fact that petting the soft fluff of the cat succeeded in lowering his blood pressure. He began devising excuses to visit the flat more often before realizing there were no devices necessary, seeing as he and Molly were in a… _something_. She would probably welcome him round any time, and he wouldn't even be coming just for the cat.

The weight of the cushion next to his depressing shook Sherlock from his thoughts, and he turned to Molly as she handed him a mug of tea, doctored just to his liking. He took a grateful sip, enjoying its warmth as it coursed its way down his esophagus and into his stomach.

"What is this case you're working on, illegal budgerigar breeding? I didn't even realize it was a regulated thing."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not certain there is a regulatory committee on budgie breeding, per se. But there is one on importing tropical birds, and the man I'm looking for has certainly been a bad egg on that front."

Molly snickered at the pun, but offered nothing else, waiting for him to continue.

"In theory, I'm trying to solve a murder, but the more intriguing bit is the fact that a budgie named Princess—of all ghastly things—is the only witness to the crime. Apparently, she has a fairly advanced vocabulary, but…." he trailed off.

"But what?"

"She won't talk to me. She hates me." His shoulders slumped, probably giving the confusing impression that he cared what a bird thought of him."She did try to nest in my hair, which was disgusting, but beyond that she remains stoic and taciturn. So I'm trying to track down her breeder to question his abysmal training and find out if there's a code word I need to get her to talk."

To her credit, Molly maintained a straight face. She bit her lip, but nodded at him in encouragement.

"The problem is that the man has gone underground and I only have a description of him with no contact information," Sherlock sighed forlornly.

"Were you close to finding him when you bumped into me?" Molly asked.

He shrugged. "No closer than when I began my search. I was trying to triangulate his most likely position, but I'm having trouble focusing on my stored maps right now."

Reaching forward, she pushed his hair off of his forehead with a finger, only for it to fall back into place when she moved her hand to rest on his shoulder. "When did you last sleep?"

"Thurs—no, it would have been Wednesday night." Who had time to keep track of these things?

"No wonder you're having trouble focusing, Sherlock. It's Monday. You've got to be exhausted." Molly's tone remained gentle, but he felt a knee-jerk defensiveness springing up, never one to be admonished.

"I've gone longer before. I'm operating on a deadline, Molly." He twitched irritably, mostly because it was likely that Molly was correct and his inattention would be remedied with rest.

She nodded in understanding and said, "I know you are. But would it set you behind if you just took one night, or even a few hours, to try to recoup? The cold is probably sapping your energy even more. Sleep some, and see if that gives you a second wind."

He had to admit, it sounded enticing. Would Molly let him stay, he wondered?

Proving that she was as astute as ever, she continued, "Why don't you stay here? I won't bother you."

Tiredness was making Sherlock a bit woozy. He frowned. "How would you bother me?"

Molly shrugged, her lips pursing in awkward discomfort. "You know, by talking too much when you're trying to rest."

He looked at her for several beats."I owe you an apology," he finally said, no less awkwardly.

Despite her brow furrowing with confusion, she waited for him to go on.

"I've made a few comments about your conversation skills in the past. And I was wrong."

"Sherlock—" she tried to interject, but he shook his head.

"I was unkind to you on more than one occasion. I regret it deeply, because you… are important to me." He avoided her gaze and began smoothing out the folds of the throw across his lap. "And I enjoy hearing you talk very much," he finished in a rush.

The quiet in Molly's tiny lounge felt pervasive as he finally allowed his eyes to meet hers. She looked at him silently for a deafening moment before she expelled a puff of air and lunged forward.

Her arms wormed their way under his to wrap around his waist, hands linking at the small of his back. This proximity to her was still so new to him, but he marveled at the way her eyes changed as she leaned in closer yet and allowed his hand to come up to brush a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail back over her shoulder, his fingers tickling along her neck.

She'd always had a surprising strength and now she held him with all of it. Not that it was necessary. Sherlock was only too happy to reciprocate. Their lips matched and mated, and he felt a new clarity settle over his exhausted body as she pulled the exhaustion from him with each caress of her mouth.

Cool air swirled around his legs as Molly tugged the throw away from him, but just as quickly as the chill reached him, she was slinging a leg across his lap and climbing on top of him, pressing as closely as their clothing would allow.

Without realizing he'd moved, Sherlock found he'd sunk back against the armrest of the settee, taking Molly with him. Her warmth blanketed him, the tips of her fingers little points of heat as they danced around the collar of his shirt. He shivered at the glancing contact even as he curled his shoulders closer to her touch.

Molly made a muffled sound when Sherlock rubbed his thumbs over the arc of her hips. Her fingers started scrabbling along the buttons of his shirt, releasing each hurriedly. Gratefully, he shrugged out of the shirt, or at least tried to. He cursed petulantly when his cuffs, left fastened, caught at the heels of his hands.

Shushing him, she laughed lowly, pulling his right hand between them to assist with the shirt. She guided his arm back around her waist once she'd freed it and then blindly reached for his left wrist to treat it in kind, but she was too distracted pressing kisses to his chest to boast any speed.

"Molly," he murmured, smoothing his hands up and down her back. Her lips curved in a smile as she reared back up to kiss his mouth once more.

While he pulled the clothes from her body, he committed each swathe of her skin to the cartography of his mind. Kissing along the flesh of her neck and chest, the tension spread further in the pit of his , he buried his face against her neck, feeling her rapid pulse with the curve of his mouth.

As he sank into her, each brush of her body against his, each twitch of muscle or shudder of breath pulled him deeper, and Sherlock relished her call. The anchor of her hand on the back of his neck and her lips on his pulse made her the focus of his parabola. However far he was stretched, she remained his fixed point.

In what felt almost like an absolution, Sherlock came with Molly, all the while feeling something suspiciously similar to joy.

* * *

Hell wasn't only the minutes after her death. It was that morass of time that stretched through the longest five days he'd ever endured.

He had spent the first twenty hours sitting rigidly on the end of the settee, frozen in shock.

John refused to leave his side. He'd sat too close to Sherlock, his side pressed against his friend's, as if it might keep Sherlock from bolting.

_Where would I go?_ Sherlock thought dully at the time. An hour after her death, a memory had flashed into his mind; Molly reading her favorite poem to him one snowy night three weeks ago.

_"Back he spurred like a madman, shrieking her curse to the sky, with the white road smoking behind him, his rapier brandished high."_

Sherlock couldn't even rage. He was sapped by her loss. He'd felt that slowing heartbeat of his come to a stop as he watched hers do the same over the computer screen.

One reality of having so few friends, he thought bitterly, was that death had never quite reached him before. He'd seen his share of violent murders and gruesome scenes. He'd been party to the end of more than a few lives and those closest to him had all had their brushes with mortality.

But never like this. No, nothing like this. Here he was, the survivor with no coping mechanism.

The closest he had ever come to this was the death of his father, but even then, his feelings of grief were more for the loss of potential than in the loss of the man, who'd been hard and unkind. His grief for Molly, on the other hand, had the purity of utter bereavement.

Now, nearly a week after that wretched, awful day, he was no closer to any answers and he felt the pall of death continue to haunt him.

After several days of remaining ensconced in the flat where he had lived with, made love with, fought with, and laughed with Molly, Sherlock had emerged from his self-imposed exile. But only so he could retrace the same steps he'd followed every day in his futile search for clues before that horrific text made its way to him.

Like an old man whose joints had gone rigid with age, he trudged down the stairs he had once nimbly descended. He squinted at the cheerful, bright sunlight that flooded the street; a shut-in whose retinae had grown accustomed to curtained mourning, trying to adjust to a world that kept on beating.

Fifteen minutes before, he'd been sitting in his chair, watching the empty fire grate. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to watch John lowering himself into the chair across from his, observing Sherlock carefully.

Normally, Sherlock would have felt uneasy by his friend's stare, but today he tapped into that often dormant empathy and recognized that it was only out of concern for him. In fact, he only felt bad that he couldn't allay John's worry.

He'd cleared his throat; his voice carried the hoarseness of disuse. "I know I won't always feel this way. But, John, when I don't feel this way anymore, it's when I'll know that she's really gone and it hurts me to think I'll someday want that knowledge."

John had no response.

But it was an impetus for Sherlock. He knew he had to keep looking for answers. Mycroft certainly wasn't any closer, though he knew his older brother was spending considerable time on the matter. He saw him at least once a day, though the news never changed.

As John looked on, he laboriously rose from his chair and shuffled over to the coatrack, pulling his Belstaff around his thinner frame.

On his way out, he paused in the frame, bracing his hands on the wood, his head dropping low. "I appreciate what you've done for me."

John shifted noisily in his seat and then awkwardly burst out, "My heart is broken for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes burned and blurred as he looked down at his feet. He stared at them furiously, as if they might offer him answers to questions he couldn't bring himself to ask yet. Instead of turning to face his friend, Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose and nodded his head once before moving down the stairs.

John's words spurred him on. But more importantly, he knew that Molly would never want him to waste away with grief as his only companion.

* * *

She cackled as she watched some horrendous film about vampires on a dull, Wednesday night. Something about a girl who spent half of the story curled up on the forest floor after being scorned by her vampire love.

"Problem, Molly?" he murmured. She'd moved in only two weeks ago, and he was finding adjusting to her presence far easier than he'd expected. But when she watched television, she was nearly as mouthy as he.

All too happy to be distracted from the train wreck of a movie, she looked at him with mock solemnity. "Just know that if you leave me or kick the bucket prematurely, I promise not to waste my life pining for you. I'd be sad for a bit, but then maybe I'd join a polka club or something."

When he'd just blinked at her in confusion, she uncurled herself from the chair and walked over to where he sat at the kitchen table. She placed a quick, noisy kiss on his forehead. "Just say ditto," she instructed as she pulled away, stroking her thumb over the edge of his ear.

"Ditto?" he parroted uncertainly.

With a nod, she let go of him and moved to the refrigerator. Over her shoulder she said, "Good. I bet you'd enjoy Zumba. Think about it." And then she'd grinned, her dimples appearing in her cheeks as she turned to study the contents of the fridge.

* * *

He stepped out on the bustle of Baker Street.

The shock of daylight and breeze after so much time spent inside was not something Sherlock welcomed. He would have very much preferred the quiet dark of Molly's and his room, the feel of their sheets and the smell of her pillow. Not this harsh, abrasive reality that smelled of too much London air and no Molly.

Taking the walk between 221 Baker Street and the neighborhood Tesco had become second nature well before Molly's death. Five days of grieving didn't change its familiarity, though Sherlock knew now that making this walk one more time was now more of a self-taunt than an investigation.

"You're a fool," he berated himself. He told himself that he _would_ have saved her, but how? His brilliance meant nothing to him since it failed him in the most crucial moment.

Noticing that he was drawing stares as he strode down the walk, berating himself out loud, Sherlock spared time to snarl at the few people who dared to meet his eyes before turning his thoughts inward again.

When he walked through the doors of the supermarket, Sherlock noticed the wary clerks manning the front lanes. They'd grown concerned about Sherlock's frequent visits to the store in the time between Molly's disappearance and her death. Clearly, they'd thought that this mad man had given up whatever quest that had driven him through the store again and again and again without making a purchase and were distressed to see him back.

He nearly barked at them to worry about their own, pathetic lives—one clerk was skimming off the till, two were shagging in the produce storage bay during breaks ['Hardly hygienic,' he imagined _tsking _condescendingly], and the fourth was plotting to attack someone in his own right.

Instead, Sherlock averted his eyes again and wound his way through food displays, grocers, and shoppers.

He drew to a stop in front of the eggs. They lined the shelves neatly in their cartons, innocuous as ever. Though it was silly to transfer his grief to random symbols, he'd been unable to eat them in Molly's absence. Now, as he looked at them, they almost mocked him.

Peering at the shelves behind them yielded nothing, and the managing clerk in this particular store had threatened to have Sherlock removed when he displaced them (albeit somewhat gently) from their spot. No matter, really. He hadn't found anything useful here the first time he visited the spot. The hundredth was hardly any different.

He stared at the floor tile that CCTV footage had shown Molly standing on as she inspected a carton, making sure none of its eggs were broken before making her way to the cashier. Even on the day she was taken, she'd left no trace of having stood there. It would be pointless for Sherlock to memorialize it, but to him, that scuffed, beige tile did represent nearly the last place she was unfrightened and unassuming.

It was silly, but he was fairly certain that this greasy feeling moving up and down his spine as he looked at the spot, though it was now omnipresent for him, was nothing but fear. Fear for Molly, even now knowing what had become of her. Fear for himself, because she had made him long so much to be better, and would he regress without her?

His mobile chimed and he ignored it. It was probably John or Mycroft or any number of the people who had taken to checking up on him throughout the day. He could understand their concern even if a phone call to ameliorate it was pointless. Some of those checking on him had taken to asking about a memorial service for Molly, too, and he hadn't the energy for that discussion.

So as his phone's marimba ring sounded again and again, Sherlock stared at that floor tile and made no move to answer. If it wasn't his friends, it would be someone wanting to hire him, and he had no drive or desire to deal with a case.

But the caller wouldn't give up. The fourth time the mobile rang, he sighed and finally dug it out of his pocket.

_Number Withheld_

He frowned.

"Are you going to answer that?" an annoyed woman snapped as she came up beside him, looking at some item on an adjacent shelf.

Deciding he didn't care to get into a shouting match with a random shopper, Sherlock slid his thumb across the answer bar and brought the mobile to his ear.

"Yes?"

At first, whoever lurked on the other end of line remained silent.

"Look," Sherlock said tiredly, scratching his brow. "I am going to hang up right now if you don't say whatever the hell was important enough for you to ring me six bloody times."

He heard a shuddering breath, and then a whispering voice."Reims."

After a pregnant pause, Sherlock snippily replied, "Yes? And?" No response came, so he continued, "Are we playing a geography game? Because I really have no interest in people who waste my ti—"

"Molly Hooper is alive."

An anvil of pain and longing and disbelief dropped in the pit of his stomach. He vaguely registered the click of the line disconnecting. Sherlock spun around, but he was alone. The woman who'd voiced her displeasure only a few moments earlier was no longer in sight.

_It's a cruel joke._

But he stood, staring at cartons of eggs, feeling a stuttering in his chest where he'd previously only felt an aching chasm.

* * *

"Did something happen?"

It was a rainy Friday afternoon; one of those rare happenstances when Molly had a day off from the hospital and Sherlock had had no cases at hand. Though he used to mock the cloying domesticity of such things, they had formed some downright couple-y habits and customs for those days.

One such custom was lying in bed for the entire day, dozing, chatting, making love, and then dozing some more. Molly had been asleep when Sherlock received the call, but she woke as he began stuffing clothes into a suitcase.

"New case," he explained. "Missing person. John and I are off to France." He hurried over to the closet and pulled on a pair of trousers and a shirt, neither of which he bothered to fasten or button before he continued packing.

Molly sat up, stretching her arms over her head before pushing up onto her knees. She shuffled over to the edge of the bed where he was zipping up the suitcase. With a gentle hand on his arm, she tugged him a little to the side so that he came to a stop standing in front of her. Which the quick efficiency that he quite admired in her, she buttoned up his shirt, tucked it into the waistband of his trousers before securing those, as well.

He stroked a hand down her flank, coming out of his New Case euphoria enough to enjoy the sleep-warmed softness of her skin. "I don't know how long I'll be gone. Hopefully I'll be back soon." He ducked his head to kiss her.

Wrapping her arms tightly around his torso when his lips broke from hers, Molly pressed her ear to his chest. "Please be careful. Eat and sleep regularly, let me know how you are, and don't come back with a fake French accent."

"Why on Earth would I come back with a fake French acc—Oh. You're joking."

"Oui, oui, mon cœur," she said with exaggerated, Francophone flair.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock kissed her once more before stuffing his arms into his suit jacket and hurrying out of the bedroom. His lips curved in a smirk when she laughingly called after him, "Au revoir, mon petit croissant!"

But by the time the door closed behind him, his focus had already shifted to the case ahead.

He'd never been to Reims before.

* * *

Mycroft's face was full of pity. There was no other way to describe it.

It rankled. Not because it bruised Sherlock's pride, but because it reflected everything he'd felt when he received the call at the supermarket. How could he even entertain hope that what the caller said was true?

He and his brother stood, facing off in Mycroft's office a scant forty-five minutes after Sherlock had rushed from the Tesco.

"Sherlock, you have to be realistic," Mycroft chided, not unkindly. "You saw the doctor die."

Sherlock flinched, but he shook his head at his brother's words, impatient. "I received an anonymous call. Have you traced it?"

Mycroft sighed. "Yes. It originated in France."

"In Reims?"

Nodding, Mycroft leaned against his desk tiredly. "You mentioned something about Frank Carfax's disappearance?"

Sherlock nodded. "It was my last case. I was hired by Carfax's husband, Paul, to locate him. Carfax disappeared seven weeks ago whilst vacationing in the French countryside with some university friends. His companions could not say where or when he'd disappeared. Too much partaking of the local spirits.

"I discovered that he'd been swindled by a local priest, Henri Pierre, but I couldn't find any link between that and his disappearance. But I knew it was related."

Mycroft pinched his bottom lip as he listened to his younger brother. "And this Pierre?"

"He's a religious fanatic who happens to prey on the wealthy and the guileless. He was posing as a cleric in the Notre Dame Cathedral of Reims, but the only thing I could prove was that he was tricking stupid people, not doing anything illegal." Sherlock shifted impatiently on the balls of his feet. They were wasting time here.

"What makes you think he was involved in Doctor Hooper's disappearance, as well?"

He steeled himself as he recounted, "During the live feed when Molly was… when I last saw her, whoever thought it fitting to transmit such a thing to me quoted a bible verse. A funeral rite alludes to it—ashes to ashes, dust to dust—so I didn't think anything of it, since they used fire to…." He trailed off, now refusing to say if for a new reason, though he knew it foolish.

"Have you considered that this is likely a trap?" Mycroft straightened and moved back behind his desk.

Sherlock's throat burned as he spoke. "I have to see. It might be a trap. That's why I need your help, Mycroft. But I can't just leave it if there's any chance that she—that _Molly_ might not be dead."

Running his palm over his face, Mycroft expelled another deep breath. Lowering his hand, his eyes met his younger brother's, and he gave him a single nod.

* * *

He told her he loved her on a Sunday evening.

It wasn't spurred on by any trauma or shock. It wasn't because he was trying to cajole something from her or soften her anger.

They'd been together for a year. She'd moved into 221B Baker Street nearly four months prior. Logic informed him that she was likely aware without his having to say anything.

But still.

"That tickles," she laughed, glancing up from her book.

He'd been running his thumb across the creases of her knuckles, down the sensitive lengths of each, thin finger. Sherlock hadn't realized he was even holding her hand. He was intent on the medical text he was reading, but sometime in the last twenty pages or so, he'd sought that contact with were sitting together on the couch. It was a rare thing for Sherlock to hold still for so long, but somehow she calmed him without dulling him.

He brought her hand up close to his face, inspecting the lines and curves of her fingers. Flipping it over, he gave her palm the same treatment before lowering his head and pressing a kiss to it.

The tips of her fingers stroked the side of his face. He drew back to look at her. In the warm lamplight, her eyes were dark and serious, but so warm. Her face was half-shadowed, but it still glowed.

Looking at her like this, it was the easiest thing in the world for him to say, "I love you."

Her mouth parted in surprise, but then the corners of her mouth tilted up in the sweetest smile. "I love you, too."

He didn't tell her he loved because he wanted or needed anything. He told her he loved her because he wanted and needed _her_.

And he wanted her to know.

* * *

Reims was quiet in the winter. After the end of the warm, autumn days but before the crowds arrived for the city's Christmas markets, the streets were almost barren.

Sherlock prowled the cobblestoned roads, hardly aware of the men who followed behind, searching too. Up ahead, Sherlock could see John turn a corner onto a side street. He knew that Mary, Lestrade and a few other volunteers were around, too. In the end, a fair few of them arrived at the airfield, ready to board the plane meant to transport Sherlock and a small squad of agents to France.

Mycroft had merely arched his brow at the entourage, but refrained from commenting further. Sherlock was secretly grateful for his acceptance.

Now, he felt the first pang of frustration hit. They'd been in Reims for several hours already with no success. The Church reported that Henri Pierre had left their employ the day Sherlock had given up on the Carfax investigation. They hadn't seen him since.

Sherlock peered into an empty garage, though his hope was waning that he would find anything in the city.

He nearly jumped when someone tapped on his shoulder. Whirling around, he came face to face with a tall, middle-aged woman. Her black hair was streaked with grey, and her careworn expression was darkened by the gloom of the garage.

"I wasn't trying to trespass," Sherlock hurried to say, trying to mitigate an angry misapprehension. "I'm searching for someone whom I have reason to believe is hiding in the city."

She looked at him quietly for a moment before shuddering. "You're looking for my husband."

Sherlock started to shake his head.

"I'm Anjuli Pierre and you're looking for my husband, Henri."

Of course. He wasn't a real priest, after all. But Sherlock had had no reason to see him beyond that context until the end of his investigation when Pierre must have realized Sherlock was on to him.

"You called me."

She nodded, but didn't offer anything else.

"Is it true?" He had to resist shaking her.

"Yes," she said. "She's alive."

He would have sagged, but a new terror for Molly filled him. "Why are you telling me this?"

Anjuli clutched at the cuffs of her sleeves, refusing to meet his eyes. "He took it too far. We were making a living doing what we were doing, but then Frank Carfax came along. Henri… h-he killed Frank."

"When?" Sherlock demanded.

Looking to the side, Anjuli made a distressed, whining sound, but began talking again. "Yesterday. Henri insisted that Frank needed to die, or it would all be over for us. He discovered that Henri had conned him. But we just… I couldn't. Until Henri found a way to do it that wouldn't require us to be there."

Sherlock stared hard at her, when a voice whispered in the back of his mind. "Dust to dust," he murmured.

She nodded. "He buried Frank alive yesterday morning. And he's going to do the same to your Molly tonight."

Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed Anjuli's shoulders. "Where is she? Where is she?!" He knew he was shouting in the woman's face, but he couldn't contain his desperation.

She sobbed, but through her cries, he could make out her reply. "The Cathedral. In the crypt."

Sherlock was running without realizing he'd moved. Through the night streets he fled. He heard John's voice shouting after him but he didn't pause or slow down. He could make out the silhouette of Notre Dame Cathedral a half a kilometer away. In his fright, it seemed to loom, but never get closer.

His breath gasped through his lungs as the pounding of his feet on the hard stone street set a beat to his fear.

Finally, _finally,_ he reached the church. He raced up to a side door and yanked on it without success. He ran to the next door, and then the next. Of course the church was closed for the night. He threw his side against the wood of some double doors, over and over again, but though they shuddered against his weight, they didn't give.

"Sherlock!" John came running into the churchyard, gasping for breath.

Sherlock gulped in air, too. "She—she's in there, John! I have to get to her. I have to save her!"

Without a word, John ran up to his side. "We'll try again." When Sherlock reared back ready to batter the doors with his body again, John put a staying hand on his arm. "You're just going to dislocate your shoulder that way, and then you won't be fit to help her. We use the flat of our feet, and kick right by the door latches. Alright?"

Sherlock wiped at the sweat beading on his upper lip, but nodded in understanding. They stepped away from the wood. John met Sherlock's eyes and murmured, "On three. One. Two. Three—"

With a splintering _bang_, the doors fell back on their hinges. John hopped a little, cringing, but he kept pace with Sherlock as they entered the darkened cathedral.

The silence that greeted them was oppressive. No one moved through the sanctuary, and the smell of incense and melting wax that usually filled such places was absent.

"Where is she?" John whispered, but Sherlock was already running to the far end of the church. He found the stairs without much searching and lunged down them. The only light to guide him glowed dimly from the bottom of the steps, flickering like flames. Seeing that he'd found the entrance to the crypt, he slowed his pace, trying to quiet his feet on the stone.

He made out the sound of someone murmuring. Just one voice. He wasn't too late. He couldn't be.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he peered around the frame. The candles lining the altar of the tiny crypt chapel were all lit. The man kneeling before a crucifix wore a cleric's robes, and his hands were clasped in front of him. The way the muscles in his back flexed, Sherlock could only assume he was working through a rosary.

Before him, resting across the stone platform of the altar, was a wooden casket.

He didn't mean to, but Sherlock made a noise of distress at the sight of the coffin. It was low, but it was enough for Pierre to whirl around. He squinted, having stared at the candlelight long enough to dazzle his eyes.

With a yell, Sherlock ran at him.

Pierre's eyes widened, but then he merely turned back to the altar and held his arms outward, speaking rapidly. _"Notre Père, qui es aux cieux, Que ton nom soitsanctifié, Que ton règnevienne—_"

His words cut off abruptly as Sherlock tackled him to the hard, stone floor. Sherlock slammed his fist into Pierre's face once, twice, three times. He knew he was shouting the entire time, but he couldn't stop the rage from spewing from him. He would have continued to hit him, were it not for John's voice reaching him through his haze.

"Sherlock, he's out. You got him. I'll watch him."

He drew back, shaking his hand. He'd likely split his knuckles, but his gaze had already moved to the casket. He had reached it before he even realized he'd regained his feet.

It was nailed shut. He pried at it with his fingers, trying to loosen them. In his distress, Sherlock nearly didn't see the hammer on the floor. But he did, and he dove for it. He dug the claw of the hammer's head into each nail, one-by-one, until he had them all pulled loose.

Throwing back the lid of the coffin, he again made an animal noise.

Molly lay inside, gagged and blindfolded. It was deep enough that she rested on her side, her hands tied behind her back. She shuddered as the fresh air reached her, but she must have been in shock, likely hyperventilating, so he doubted she was aware who stood over her.

"Molly," he moaned, tugging at her until she was seated upright in the casket, her back to him.

But his calling her name succeeded in rousing her a bit. Her head turned, following his voice. She made a muffled noise, unable to speak around the rag stuffed in her mouth. He quickly pulled it free before moving his unsteady hands to release the blindfold from around her eyes. He stared at her bruised face, shiny with healing burns, and saw her lips shudder around the consonants of his name.

Gently, so gently, Sherlock untied the abrasive rope that held her hands together behind her back. She whimpered as even that slight jarring hurt her stiffened limbs. He didn't pause in his efforts, but he had to close his eyes and rest his forehead between her shoulder blades as he worked the knots.

He had no sooner finished untying her than he was lifting her from the casket, sinking to the ground with her clutched tightly in his arms. They sat there in front of the altar as people began flooding down into the crypt. John must have called Mycroft as he stood over Pierre's prone body.

Sherlock felt Molly's arms wrap weakly around him as he rocked her back and forth, back and forth. She didn't weep (he did), but her breath sobbed out as she pressed her face into the hollow of his neck.

"Molly. Molly. Molly." He whispered it in her ear. He couldn't stop saying her name, over and over like he was singing a hymnal call. He felt her move her head enough so that she could press her dry, cracked lipsto his. He felt them curve in stunned relief and joy and he knew his smiled just the same.

He could feel his heart, stale and dusty, shake off its bindings and shudder into rhythmic beats once more.

Molly Hooper was alive.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
